


Oath

by rinwins



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Fix-It But For The Entire Star Wars Canon, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Keldabe Kiss, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwins/pseuds/rinwins
Summary: “I want to ask you something,” Din says, after they’ve settled Grogu down for the night.That’s his serious voice. Probably not many people can tell the difference, actually, but Luke can.“Okay,” he says, “go ahead.”...“Would you consider,” says Din, “joining my clan?”-Which contains two proposals, mild liberties with both Mandalorian and Jedi customs, sociopolitical and religious implications But In Space, Force visions, too much studying, a little sparring, a bit of snark, and a Lot of fluff.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 37
Kudos: 407





	Oath

“I want to ask you something,” Din says, after they’ve settled Grogu down for the night.

That’s his serious voice. Probably not many people can tell the difference, actually, but Luke can.

“Okay,” he says, “go ahead.”

“In here,” says Din. “We should sit down.”

Oh. It  _ is _ serious. Luke follows him across the corridor into their own quarters-- Din’s not even in the system half the time, but Luke thinks of it as  _ their _ quarters-- and sits down on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him. Din hesitates for several moments before joining him.

“What is it?” Luke asks, gently encouraging.

“Would you consider,” says Din, “joining my clan?”

Luke looks at him. His helmet is, of course, as inscrutable as ever, but he doesn’t need to see his face to be able to read him. He’s alert; not tense, but expectant; not nervous, exactly, but his nerves are engaged. His presence in the Force is a steady vibration. Luke matches it with stillness.

“What would that mean?” he says.

“You’d be entitled to wear the mudhorn signet,” Din says, deliberately, as if reciting. “My allies would be your allies, the child would be in your care as he is in mine. Any Mandalorian would be expected to deal with you as they would with me.”

“Even though I’m not a Mandalorian,” says Luke. “Is that-- allowed?”

A regretful shrug from Din. “Not in every sect,” he says. “My covert… wouldn’t have accepted it. But enough will. You wouldn’t have to take the Creed,” he adds, seeming to anticipate Luke’s next question. “Just study it, and swear to respect our Way.”

“Well, I have been meaning to learn more about Mandalore,” Luke says. He gives Din a sly smile. “You know, traditionally Jedi aren’t meant to marry--”

Din starts. “It’s not  _ exactly _ a marriage,” he says hastily. “If you don’t want--”

“Din,” says Luke. He’s spent enough time around Leia and Han to recognize the line of conversation that leads to comedically unfortunate misunderstandings. “I’m teasing you. I know it’s not the same thing.”

He can’t help grinning at him. All the lines of Din’s posture relax in return, back to his ready equilibrium. 

Carefully, Din takes both of Luke’s hands in his, all seriousness again. Luke finds himself leaning forward, drawn toward him as he always is.

“I don’t care what it’s called,” Din says. This is not a recital. The words come less readily, but with more weight when they arrive. “You’re a part of me. I don’t need you to swear an oath or sign a register to prove it. But if something were to-- happen to me, or-- Maker forbid, to the kid, or to you--”

“I understand,” says Luke, quiet as a breath.

“I want you to be a part of my people. I want you to know that you can go to them, if it’s ever necessary.” He can’t see Din’s eyes, but he  _ knows _ he’s looking into his. “Will you consider it?”

Luke reaches for the Force, as he always does, and the Force, as it always does, leads him back to his own feelings. He sees the answer there, the only answer there can be. 

“Yes,” he says, holding on to Din’s hands, letting Din’s energy flow into his and his own flow back like the tide, drawn into him as inexorably, as inevitably as he always is. “Yes. I accept.”

-

He does a lot of studying over the next few weeks. Some of it is just planning, with questions he keeps having to go back to Din with-- is there anything to sign (no), is there a ceremony (not really), can Leia be there (well, some traditions have a witness from each clan present, and she’ll kick if she’s left out, so yes). Most of it is history, of Mandalore and its people, their wars and alliances, and the Way. He has questions about that too, but a lot of it Din doesn’t know either-- or, like Luke, he’s just learning himself.

“We’re breaking so many rules,” he says to Din one night, exhausted, putting the text he’s been reading down. The paper is old and the dialect is even older, and he can’t make his eyes focus on it any more.

“We’re following the rules,” Din replies absently. He gestures around at the texts and records and hologram pucks, as if to say, this is the evidence, all this work.

Luke scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s not exactly what I mean,” he says. “I mean-- I already know the Jedi wouldn’t have accepted this. And the more I learn, about the Jedi and Mandalore, I don’t see how  _ any _ of your people will. We were enemies for so long--”

“ _ We _ aren’t enemies,” says Din. He interrupts so infrequently, Luke always pays attention when he does. He lets Din take his hand, waiting for the rest of the thought he knows will follow.

“I thought there was only one way to be Mandalorian,” he continues. “Now I know that isn’t true. You’re not the Jedi that came before you. You’re the Jedi  _ now _ .”

“There is one path,” Luke says, “but there are many ways to walk it.” He realizes he’s quoting one of the texts-- more of his reading than he thought must be sticking in his head.

He feels Din’s grip on his hand and imagines his smile under the helmet. “Something like that. Now come on, you need to get some sleep.”

-

He does a decent amount of training too. The Way of the Mandalore is more physical than philosophy. He practices with Din, aware that he’s fifteen, maybe twenty years older than most who learn these exercises, and wonders with grim good humor how many more disciplines he’ll wind up learning with a later start each time. 

It’s a little strange, to be the student again and not the master, but he finds he likes learning from Din. He’s patient, but no-nonsense, correcting Luke’s stance when he shifts or his grip when he wields the wooden practice weapon like a saber instead. Once or twice he moves in close, shapes his body around Luke’s to show him the right form, and-- even though they share a bed and raise a child together-- Luke finds himself blushing like a teenager too.

One day, he holds out his hand for the practice weapon and is surprised to be given Din’s vibro-blade instead. 

“Are you sure?” he says.

Din just nods his helmeted head toward the court. “No other weapons,” he says, “and no Force.”

He  _ knows _ it’s only a sparring match, but every one of his nerves thrills in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He has his agility and the blade, Din has his armor and years of experience-- the match feels endless, and like it’s over in seconds; and it ends with Din pinning Luke to the floor of the court, and Luke with the blade held neatly and close at Din’s side. A draw.

His presence in the Force is a warm pulse as he pulls Luke to his feet. “Keep it,” he says, when Luke starts to give the blade back.

“It’s yours,” Luke protests. It’s the first thing he learned. Just as a Jedi’s saber is his life, a Mandalorian’s weapon is a part of him.

Din folds Luke’s hand over the hilt, his own hand over his. “I want you to keep it,” he repeats. His voice is low and quiet with the exertion of the match. “You’re a part of me. This is a part of you now.”

What else can he say to that? A little breathless-- not only from the match-- he touches his forehead to Din’s helmet.

-

There’s a problem, because of course there is. Luke  _ isn’t _ Mandalorian, so someone who  _ is _ has to witness the oath and forge the signet. And it has to be someone who knows both him and Din, and in the stricter traditions it should be someone who’s fought with them, and the list of people who meet all of those qualifications is very, very small.

In fact, it’s one person.

“Well, he’s met you,” Din says.

“Yeah,” Luke mutters, face in his hands, “and I dropped him in a sarlacc pit.”

Din shrugs, the way he does to indicate something’s a joke. “He lived. Look,” he says, serious again, “I think Fett will agree, but he’s going to want to ask you some questions first.”

“I bet he is,” said Luke. “So I guess we’re going to Tatooine?”

“I guess we are.”

-

The transport hatch opens onto the endless sands of the Dune Sea. Luke stands there for a moment after disembarking, shielding his eyes in the glare of the twin suns, taking it in.

“You okay?” says Din.

“I just didn’t expect to be back here,” he replies.

His eyes are toward the dunes and the palace, but he can feel Din beside him, a still place in the Force, a grounding presence. 

“You’ll do fine,” Din says, resting a hand on his shoulder. Then he leans closer and lowers his voice. “But if it comes to a fight,” he says, “don’t throw him into another pit.”

The palace, once a chaos of opulence under the Hutts, is austere by comparison now. The furnishings are minimal but very well crafted; Boba Fett sits in the thronelike chair in all his armor, with only one enforcer beside him, a woman in black. She nods once to Din as they enter-- Luke recognizes her from the carrier where they’d first met.

They reach the center of the floor just below the dais before Fett holds up his hand for them to stop.

“So you think this is a good idea, do you,” he says, his voice imposing through the modulator, “bringing the last Jedi into a Mandalorian clan? Don’t answer that,” he adds, before Din can say anything.

Fett folds gloved hands in front of him. His face, like Din’s, is hidden, but Luke is very aware he’s being scrutinized. He draws on his training and stands calmly, returning gaze for gaze.

“Luke Skywalker,” Fett says, almost musing. “Well. At least I don’t have to ask if you’re prepared to fight for your clan.”

There’s a ripple of amusement from his enforcer, and of course an indignant vibration from Din, but Luke can’t read Fett at all, not even through the Force. He gives a nod in return but says nothing.

“It’s not a small thing you’re doing. I suppose you’ve been preparing?”

“I have,” says Luke.

“And you think you’re ready?”

He thinks about his answer, searching within himself, before he speaks. This is the point of no return. If he’s going to say it now, he has to  _ know _ it’s true.

“I do,” he says.

Fett considers him carefully. “Shand,” he says at last, “take Djarin somewhere. I want to talk to the kid alone.”

Din very clearly doesn’t want to leave, but he goes, following Shand into an antechamber. Once they’ve gone, Fett removes his helmet-- somewhat to Luke’s surprise-- revealing a shaved head and a scarred and weathered face.

“I thought that was your fighter I saw leaving the carrier that day,” he says. His voice isn’t any less imposing without the helmet. “Should have known you’d wind up involved in this somehow.”

“That wasn’t my intent at the time,” says Luke, “believe me.”

Judging by the look Fett gives him, he doesn’t. “The thing about Djarin is,” he continues, “he doesn’t see the big picture. He doesn’t think about… complications. That saber he carries, you know what it means?”

“I do,” Luke says.

“You and I both know Djarin doesn’t want to rule Mandalore. That would be fine, there are ways to pass the dark saber without unnecessary bloodshed, no matter what-- certain elements believe. But having a Jedi in the Mand’alor’s clan, that’s…”

“A complication,” finishes Luke.

“Hm,” says Fett. “Yes. You could be very dangerous.”

“And of course you can’t have danger finding its way back to you,” says Luke. “Especially not if you were the one who sanctioned it.”

Fett regards him coolly. “If I were you, Jedi, I’d choose my next words very carefully.”

He does. “My task is restoring the ways of the Jedi,” he says, “not rebuilding the Council. I don’t intend to train warriors or politicians--” he gives the other man his calmest, surest stare, immovable as ice-- “or enemies of Mandalore.”

“You’ll swear to that?”

“You have my word.”

“As a Jedi?” says Fett.

Luke allows himself a half-smile. “As a clan member.”

Fett gives a quiet snort that  _ might _ be a laugh. “I don’t like you, Skywalker,” he says. “But you’ll do.”

-

They end up going back to Tatooine, as it turns out, after the rest of the preparations are done. It isn’t anyone’s first choice, but they need Fett for the oath, and Fett needs a forge, and he insists-- understandably-- on using his own.

He’s a gracious enough host, though, especially once Leia arrives. “I suppose I should congratulate you,” she tells him, looking around the throne room. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“And I suppose I have you to thank, General,” Fett replies. He tilts his head, helmeted again, toward the dais. “I haven’t forgotten Jabba.”

Leia’s gaze turns briefly to stone. “Nor have I,” she says. “I wish you better fortune than your predecessors.”

A little later, she pulls Luke aside. “Han wanted me to give you his best,” she murmurs. “Well-- he  _ wanted _ to come, but given the circumstances--”

Luke can’t help but wince. 

The palace is large and, currently, mostly unoccupied; there are plenty of unused chambers, and a few have been furnished in the same spare style as the throne room. A droid leads Leia to hers. A second comes to show Din to the set of chambers he and Luke will share, but Luke won’t be joining him yet. The first part of the oath he has to face alone.

He transfers Grogu to Din’s arms, watching fondly as the child settles in his hold. For a moment, he lets himself linger, one hand on Din’s arm, drawing strength from his and Grogu’s presence. Din doesn’t speak, but Luke can feel warmth from him. He tilts his head up, and Din leans down, just briefly, to rest his helmet against Luke’s forehead.

Then Luke takes a steadying breath and follows Fett down to the forge.

-

Din had explained this part to him, late at night, as they lay in bed with Grogu sleeping between them. It’s a tradition from his covert-- when beskar is forged for you, armor, weapons, signet, even repairs, you keep watch in silence while it’s made. 

He passes the small ingot to Fett now. The other man inspects it appraisingly, and then inspects Luke with almost the same appraisal. At last he gives the slightest of nods.

“You are to take up the mudhorn signet,” he says. The words have the cadence of ritual, heavy in the hot air of the forge. “You will wear it with honor for your clan and respect for our people.”

“This is the Way,” Luke replies.

There’s a stone bench that runs a half-circle around one side of the forge. Luke assumes his meditation posture and settles in to watch.

He doesn’t quite mean to, but part of his mind always reaches for the Force when he meditates. And the Force, as it always does, flows in around him, buoying him up.

The vision it shows him is one he’s seen before. It’s all the connections between the Jedi who came before him, masters and students, fathers and sons, siblings, orphans, comrades in arms, too numerous to count or distinguish; a web spanning centuries, reaching too far back to see, the veins and nerves of a great living thing. And then-- the war, the destruction of the Jedi, a scar across the body of the massive ancient being that is the Force. It is a chasm he can see across but cannot bridge, a tapestry he must weave with only a few tenuous threads.

But he sees also, this time, another web, within and around and entangled with and in opposition to the first-- Mandalore and its people, scattered across the galaxy. Watching it, he realizes it is not two networks but one, or just two parts out of many, both part of the same being, both wounded by the same scar. And he sees, for the first time, the  _ other _ side of the chasm-- new threads unspooling and weaving together, the web spreading and widening again, to encompass foundlings and teachers, children and parents, families and clans-- not one possible future but many, all drawn from the crucible of this small room.

The vision ebbs. Luke falls back into a much more familiar thought-- Din, stubborn, inscrutable, devoted; Grogu, still so much an enigma and still so much a child. His family, oath or no oath. In his meditative state, his own feelings show him this truth-- he must not covet these attachments, but for the sake of those possible futures, he cannot reject them.

Steam hisses as the finished signet goes into the quenching bath. The forging is done. 

Din is waiting outside the forge. Luke goes to him as if drawn by gravity, caught in the circle of his arms like a sun in a binary orbit. He places both hands on either side of Din’s helmet, drawing him down, pressing their foreheads together, and it doesn’t even matter that there’s beskar between them because he can  _ feel _ every bit of him through the bond they share. 

“Marry me,” he breathes, quiet enough that only Din can hear.

He feels Din’s breath catch. “The vows--”

“I learned them,” Luke admits. “Just in case.”

It doesn’t happen often, but right now, Din laughs. Luke feels all of it-- his astonishment, his warmth, the way his shoulders shake, the way his own heart races. Behind him he’s sure Fett is rolling his eyes. He doesn’t care.

“Yes,” says Din. “Yes.”

-

It’s a very short ceremony, short enough almost not to count as one. They hold it that evening, as the twin suns set, on an observation balcony open to the cooling desert air. 

Luke dresses carefully anyway, knowing his sister would be laughing at him if she saw the consideration he put in, and laughing a little himself with the light joyous feeling that’s followed him since he emerged from the forge. He chooses a simple suit, in light desert colors-- no robe, it wouldn't be right for this-- with the vibro-blade next to his saber, where he's worn it since the day Din gave it to him. Din, of course, is in his beskar, every inch polished to a shine that reflects the setting suns. Luke can’t stop looking at him. He can’t stop smiling.

Fett witnesses as he promised, stoic and silent; Leia holds Grogu and beams openly. With great care, Luke speaks the few sentences in Mando’a he’s practiced over and over, swearing to honor his new clan and the people of Mandalore. And with equal care, Din places the signet, strung on a sturdy leather cord, around his neck.

His hands linger with a lightness he seems to reserve for Luke. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Luke’s ear, and is still, for a moment, looking at him as if in wonder. Then he lowers his head, bringing him gently closer, and Luke lets himself be led.

The words of the marriage vow, when Din speaks them, seem to twine around him in the air. He repeats them, amazed that his voice doesn’t shake. The oath weaves itself around both of them, where they stand forehead to forehead, holding each other close-- binding them together, the weft that will hold the threads of any number of futures, a bond that no amount of distance or time can break. Luke feels it in the Force around them; he knows with a certainty that, in his own way, Din senses it too.

He’s distantly aware of Fett telling Leia something about dinner, of Grogu babbling happily as he’s carried inside, of the impression from Leia that he and his  _ husband _ should consider joining them at some point.

And they will. But not just yet.


End file.
